


Giant Steps

by stereomer



Category: Jonas Brothers, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giant Steps

"It's okay, she's fucking nuts, man. Like, she's just completely fucking nuts," Brendon declares as he absently rips up clumps of grass. " _Legit_  nuts."  
  
"Say 'nuts' more, Brendon." Frank is stretched out on the field, hands pillowed behind his head, aviators on, and his feet crossed at the ankles. He may be a really puny dude who giggles a lot, but he can look pretty hardcore if he wants to. As long as he's not talking, or laughing, or standing next to anything that'll give away his height. As long as he's not doing anything, basically.  
  
Even so, Joe is sort of jealous. "You look taller lying down," Joe muses out loud.  
  
"Fuck you. Maybe Taylor was in the right and you  _are_  a dirty player with no morals," Frank replies, but there's no venom in his voice.  
  
"Nuts," Brendon says again. "She should totally know that the only person who can pull off the word 'player' is Big Pun." Which might seem like a random reference, but Brendon has a pretty impressive collection of Top 40 rap music stuffed underneath his mattress.  
  
"Nah," Joe sighs. "I just - I totally fumbled that one, man. It's one of those things you realize only in retrospect, you know?" Joe, having started, been through, and ended his first relationship in a span of three weeks, now considers himself worthy and life-beaten enough to dispense these golden nuggets of truth upon his less fortunate friends. "Heartbreak. Despair. Rebuilding," he says wisely.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Frank frowns. "Sounds like the back cover of your own self-help book."  
  
There's a small mountain of dirt and grass piling up next to Brendon's knee. "He thinks he's all high and mighty now that he's had a girlfriend," Brendon scoffs. "You know that it'll be all over the school by tomorrow morning, right? You'll be shunned by half the student body. Badly played, Joe. Badly played." He pauses. "Even though she's nuts. Still badly played."  
  
"Yeah, dude. You seriously  _called_  her during lunchtime? Why couldn't you just find her and do it in person?" Frank asks for the millionth time. "She was sitting like, three tables over."  
  
"Better question: why'd you even break up with her in the first place?" Brendon asks.  
  
"Okay, first of all, she was not sitting that close to me," Joe counters, choosing to ignore Brendon, "because I went into the bathroom to make the call," he finishes in a hurry. "Secondly, I..."  
  
He trails off. Brendon, his fingers all brown and caked with dirt, looks at him. Even Frank angles his face toward him. Joe can see his own reflection on the lenses of Frank's sunglasses. "Okay, fine. Fine!" Joe finally says loudly. "I'm supremely dumb and I know nothing about girls and I don't even know why I called her to dump her. There."  
  
"You called her to dump her because you have no balls," Frank says in a bored voice.  
  
"Yeah, because your mom has them slung around her neck as a scarf," Joe replies. "She wears a balls scarf."  
  
Frank's lip curls up. "Wait, what? Did you just insult yourself or my mom?"  
  
"Both, I think," Joe admits.  
  
"Dude, for a guy with three brothers, you should know how to defend yourself better. Both verbally and physically." Brendon throws a huge handful of grass and dirt at Joe. Predictably, Joe doesn't react in time. Well, he does do this twitchy torso thing, but it hits him square in the chest anyway.  
  
"Oh, come on, man." Joe tries to brush all the crap off, but his white button-down is already stained with colors that remind him of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "Ugh, my mom's gonna kill me."  
  
"You're fifteen years old, do your own fucking laundry," Frank says.  
  
"His mom would think it's weird if he just suddenly volunteered to do it all the time," Brendon chimes in. Frank gives him a weird look, and he insists, "She would! My mom's like that."  
  
"Well, what do you do when you rub one out in bed? Or if you have like, a sexy dream?" Frank giggles. The smile fades off his face when both Joe and Brendon kind of look to the sky or out to the field-goal posts. "Oh my god, please don't tell me you're so careful that you never splooge all over your sheets, you liars."  
  
"You just hurry up and wash them before your parents get home," Brendon mutters. He brushes his hands off, then copies Frank by lying down on the grass. He uses Joe's knee as a pillow. "Man, Taylor's seriously going to voodoo doll your ass," he says matter-of-factly.  
  
Joe licks his lips and grimaces a little. "Thanks, Brendon, you're just - you're really great at assuaging my worries and stuff."  
  
They fall into a silence and watch some overachieving athletes make their way around the track, kicking up small clouds of dust. The sun is getting low in the sky, and this is the time of day when Joe feels like he's about to burst out of his skin. It's been happening more than usual, though. As soon as he gets his driver's license, he'll probably get into his car and drive to Canada in the sunset or something.  
  
"Why'd you break up with her?" Frank finally asks, repeating Brendon's question from before.  
  
"I just wanted to," Joe answers. "I don't know, I guess all of it was a better idea in theory."  
  
"What, dating girls?" Frank asks.  
  
"Sure." Joe shrugs. He still can't pinpoint it, exactly.  
  
Brendon stays quiet, even when Joe nudges him with the toe of his shoe. He's been acting kind of off ever since the whole Taylor thing started, but now that it's ended, he's not acting any less weird. More silence, more indoor voices, less eye contact. "Well, summer break starts next week, so maybe she'll get school year amnesia or something," Joe grumbles to himself more than anything.  
  
He rolls onto his back as well, and the three of them stare at the sky.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Joe and Frank had both been new students this year at Monroeville. Joe had been homeschooled up till now, and Frank's mom had pulled Frank out of his public high school after a year. Frank was too much of a (self-described) little shit to easily make friends, and Brendon and Joe had discovered they were like, two halves of the same personality, so the three of them had gravitated toward each other with their loser orbits. Whatever. Joe's never cared about having a lot of friends, since he can just go hang out with his brothers. He's loud and weird, which people apparently don't like, but then some other loud and weird kids are really popular. Joe can't figure out the difference.  
  
In any case, it's a shame that Joe couldn't even survive a year at regular school without getting blacklisted by people. He had been a total jerk to Taylor, he can admit that to himself. She's a nice, pretty, smart girl, but Joe just felt so bland around her. Like, he didn't feel any differently about her than he did about clouds, or pencils, or anything else that didn't get him amped up. He just doesn't know  _why_ , and it most likely makes him a bigger jerk to be more worried about that than the fact that Taylor probably feels pretty hurt. Truthfully, the only thing he sincerely regrets about it all is the whole breaking-up-over-the-phone thing.  
  
Joe twirls his pen around in his hand and sighs. Frank may be right in that Joe really doesn't have balls, but he's a total hypocrite to keep pointing it out, seeing as how he is currently sitting in the very back row of History class with this total moonface going on as Jamia Nestor gives her presentation.  
  
"...and finally the stock market crashed to its lowest point on Black Monday and Tuesday," she says with finality before glancing at Mr. Flowers.  
  
"Very nice, Jamia, thank you," says Mr. Flowers. He's reclining in his chair a little, and he has his feet up on his desk. His shoes look designer. Joe resists the urge to roll his eyes, but he's a little jealous at the same time.  
  
Mr. Flowers asks Jamia a few questions before letting her return to her seat. Then he puts on a video. As soon as he flicks off the room lights, Joe feels something poke his side. He reaches blindly behind him to take the note and unfold it, examining the new additions.  
  
History is the only class that all three of them have together. This period, they've been passing around a piece of binder paper, doing that thing where one person draws something at the top of the page, and the next person draws under it to connect it to another scene, and so on. So far it's a parade of zombies marching over a bunch of swords with their points facing upward, which are being held by three knights with six hands each as they balance on stilts that are protruding from a narwhal's mouth. It's pretty awesome. Joe would rank it as the best of the year so far.  
  
He's drawing in a harpoon flying toward the narwhal when he instinctively checks on Mr. Flowers and does a double-take as it registers that Mr. Flowers is eyeing him. Joe puts his pen down and shakes his hair over his forehead. It's finally getting long enough that it curls over his neck and kind of covers his eyes; he has to sweep his bangs to the side to see anything.  
  
"Your hair isn't an invisibility cloak, Mr. Jonas," Mr. Flowers says. He's been growing this shady-looking mustache, which makes it hard to take him seriously. "Please put that note away."  
  
Twenty-seven heads turn to look at Joe, who silently slides the art masterpiece into the plastic sheath on his binder cover. He gives Mr. Flowers a big-eyed, close-lipped smile. Mr. Flowers rolls his eyes a little, then taps his pen against his bottom teeth and turns his attention back to the video. The rest of the class follows suit.  
  
Joe smiles a real smile this time, and turns to Brendon to say something, but he forgets what it is once he sees how Brendon is staring straight forward - staring at Mr. Flowers, in fact. Mr. Flowers doesn't notice, apparently. He just taps the pen against his teeth again. Frank is still staring openly at Jamia, probably committing the shape of her nose to memory, and Joe doesn't really want to interrupt Stalker Session #326 to ask him what's up with Brendon, so he just faces forward again. He watches the video, and absorbs none of it.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Finals week comes around. The prevalence of under-eye bags, bird's nest hair, and scraggly uniforms in the student population skyrockets. Surprisingly, Joe survives through the tests and the glares from Taylor and her group of friends, probably only because the ritual slaughter of Joe Jonas can wait until they've passed Biology.  
  
"Dude, I swear. If looks could kill," Brendon says as he puts his lunch tray on the table and takes a seat.  
  
"I'd be dead?" Joe guesses. He starts shredding a napkin.  
  
"You'd have died, and then they would have brought you back to life just to kill you again," Brendon says. "And then they would have incinerated your body with a hardcore laser until nothing of you remained. Where's Frank?" he asks thickly, chewing on a bite of tuna sandwich.  
  
"I think he's still taking his last test. He probably has 'B' lunch," Joe says glumly. He grabs another napkin and starts shredding that one.  
  
These days, Joe's been getting the feeling that he's mucking everything up somehow, even when he doesn't do anything. First this Taylor crapfest, and nowadays at home he mostly just wants to sit in his room or hang out with Nick and Kevin without it turning into this whole  _family_  thing, and he still finds himself wondering if Frank even likes him or what, and Brendon's being weird but not really, and just. Stuff. But today must be one of the 'not really' days with Brendon, seeing as how he's getting tuna all over the place and talking with his mouth full. Joe feels a bit better.  
  
"What time is the graduation tomorrow?" Brendon asks, and that's another thing - Kevin is graduating tomorrow, which means he's going to college that much sooner.  
  
Joe takes some shredded pieces of napkin and tears them up into even smaller strips. "10:00," he replies.  
  
"Your brother's old," Brendon says helpfully.  
  
" _We're_  going to be that old soon," Joe points out.  
  
"I know." Brendon swallows and wrinkles his nose. "That's why I can't decide if I'm happy this year is over, or if I'm depressed about it."  
  
"You can be happily depressed," Joe tells him.  
  
"Yeah? What's that look like?"  
  
They spend the rest of the lunch period trying to look happily depressed, which leads to a discussion about that website, crying while eating dot com, which leads to them trying to cry and eat at the same time. When the bell rings, signaling that the last final is going to start soon, Brendon has tuna on his chin and Joe has the makings of a sweet napkin mustache.  
  
"Here," Joe says, peeling one of his napkin mustache hairs off and wiping at Brendon's chin with it. He tosses it onto his lunch tray and smiles when Brendon touches his chin and says, "Thanks."  
  
It occurs to Joe that maybe this is what being happily depressed feels like, because it's not like he and Brendon aren't going to hang out in the summer; it's just that he's kind of going to miss seeing his dumb face like this every day.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Kevin graduates. It's anticlimactic, with the valedictorian speech being super cheesy, the band butchering  _Pomp and Circumstance_  - Joe can hear Brendon banging away on the timpani - and the way Kev is only on the stage for about three seconds. Also, the ceremony moves really fast, since another school is graduating in the same hall in the afternoon. After it ends, the parking lot is packed with students, staff, family, and friends, and their own family takes about a billion pictures, passing around Kevin's graduation cap so they each have a turn wearing it. Joe pretends the tassel is his hair and poses that way for about half the pictures.  
  
They eat lunch at a nice restaurant. Mom keeps dabbing her thumb at the corners of her eyes and beaming at Kevin, and Dad claps him on the back a lot. When the food comes, they all reflexively duck their heads as Dad starts a prayer.  
  
About four words in, a strange impulse comes over Joe. He doesn't fight it - he just silently opens his eyes and raises his head, and it's as easy as that. He feels a little guilty, but also weirdly giddy and at peace at the same time. Watching his family now is kind of like gazing in on a bubble that's separate from the world. He looks around at Nick and Frankie's pale eyelids; at Mom's, which are smudged a little with mascara, and Dad's, which have fine lines etched in the skin near his lashes.  
  
He's startled to meet Kevin's eyes, which are as wide open as his own. They stare at each other as Dad thanks the Lord for this bounty, and then the corner of Kevin's mouth crooks up.  
  
Joe curls his lips in a vague smile and nods once.  
  
  
***  
  
  
A heatwave is starting to settle in by the next week, and they all spend most of the days lounging around in different spots of the house while complaining about how hot it is. Because seriously, it is hot as  _hell_ , which Joe can announce aloud multiple times since Mom is with Frankie at the groceries and Dad is working in his office at the church.  
  
"Hell, I'm in hell," Joe moans. "The sun is poking me with its hell tritons of heat."  
  
"Shut up," Kevin calls from the other room. He's been parked behind the sofa for most of the afternoon, because there's a little triangle of shade that gets thrown onto the carpet.  
  
It's too hot to even antagonize Kevin. The thought is depressing, so Joe focuses on how his skin is sticking to the kitchen linoleum. He presses his calf down against the floor, then slowly lifts it up so that he can feel the skin peeling free. It reminds him of the Sticky Hands he used to get from those quarter toy machines as a kid. He does it two more times.  
  
"I don't know how you entertain yourself so easily," Nick comments as he sidles by on his way to stick his head in the freezer. Again. When Mom's home, he can only do that twice an hour, since she always yells at him about wasting electricity.  
  
"It's too hot to even think." At which point Joe's phone starts buzzing from where it's lying on the floor, about a foot away from his ear. He turns his head and looks at it sadly until Nick sighs. He crouches down and flips the phone open, putting it on 'speaker' before placing it on the floor again. "You're the best, Nicky. Thank you."  
  
Nick just grunts and sticks his head back in the freezer. "Hello?" Joe says loudly.  
  
"I'm dying," says Brendon's voice, rough and tinny. "It's too hot to think. I've been reduced to caveman status."  
  
"That's exactly what I said, dude. Whoa."  
  
"Really? Maybe the heatwaves are having like, a psychic effect on our heads."  
  
"Totally." Joe nods. "Totally."  
  
"This is what you guys talk about?" Nick asks, his voice muffled from inside the fridge.  
  
"Kevin, tell Nick to shut up," Joe calls.  
  
"Shut up, Nick," Kevin yells.  
  
"Thanks," Joe yells back. "Anyway," he says at a normal volume.  
  
"I have my feet in an icebox right now," says Brendon.  
  
"With ice in it?"  
  
"Yes, with ice in it. I'm not just wearing empty styrofoam boxes on my feet, dude, what the fuck."  
  
Nick pops his head from the fridge and looks curiously over his shoulder. Joe picks the phone up, takes it off speakerphone, and presses it to his ear instead. "Gunga Din," he hisses.  
  
"What? Oh. Ack," Brendon says, and his wince is practically audible. "Sorry."  
  
'Gunga Din' had been established as their code word for letting each other know that family and potentially disapproving ears were around. Brendon and Joe had made it up, while Frank had laughed at them throughout that entire conversation. "Anywaaaay," Joe sings. He wiggles his toes, basking in the cool air coming from the freezer.  
  
"I'm on the verge of taking a delirious, heat-induced nap," Brendon says. There are some muffled voices in the background - the familiar lilt of a question being asked, and then Brendon's name.  
  
"Whatcha doing? Who's over there?" Joe asks.  
  
"Nothing," Brendon says hastily. "Just wanted to check if you were alive. I gotta go, though, I'll call you later."  
  
"'kay, bye." Joe hangs up, idly curious but not enough to distract him from the fact that he's probably dying of heatstroke.  
  
A few minutes later, his mom comes home from the market with Frankie. Nick closes the fridge and makes his escape before she enters the house, but Joe keeps lying in his spot. She has to tell him to get out of the kitchen four times before he actually does it. He rolls over onto his stomach first, and then onto his back again, and then he sits up and sighs before finally hauling his butt upstairs.  
  
*  
  
Brendon doesn't call. Joe sits around and surfs the internet, looking up instructions for how to attach a leaf blower to his bike so that it'll go really fast. Then he gets tired of coming across blocked sites and just clicks around on Wikipedia for a while until the sun goes down. He finally calls Brendon himself.  
  
"Hey," Brendon answers.  
  
"Hey. Way to call me back,  _bro_ ," Joe says, but in a teasing way. "You home?"  
  
"Yup," Brendon sighs. Joe stays silent too, collapsing on his bed facedown onto his pillow.  
  
"Um, what," Brendon finally says.  
  
"What?" Joe says, his voice muffled.  
  
"It's weird if both of us are being silent. Usually we balance each other out."  
  
"Eff that. Hey, you should sneak out and come over," Joe suggests.  
  
"Dude, I can't," Brendon says right away.  
  
"Pussy," Joe scoffs, and then listens carefully to make sure that no one has their ear pressed to his door or anything. He's still trying to get used to the word. Calling someone a twat is easier, for some reason. Practice makes perfect, though.  
  
" _You_  should sneak out and come over, then," Brendon challenges.  
  
"Hmm." Joe thinks hanging up the phone and, after locking his door and turning off the lights, lifting the window open and crawling out onto the roof, James Bond-style. He could shimmy down the gutterpipe, or maybe grab a branch from the huge maple tree that overlooks the west side of the house. He thinks about jogging over to Brendon's house in the empty streets and chilling with him in the bright lights of his room before sneaking out into the dark again. Climbing up the tree would be more difficult, but it would drop him off on the roof. Easy peasy.  
  
Then he thinks about his parents sitting in the next room over, and the 11x18 portrait of Jesus they have hanging downstairs by the fireplace. The thing is huge, seriously.  
  
"I can't," Joe says.  
  
"Yeah, see."  
  
Joe exhales into his pillow. He turns his face to the side and says, "I wonder what it is with this inherent guilt. It's like, been instilled in us from the womb."  
  
"Seriously, it's the worst," Brendon agrees. "It's like a little baby in you. A little baby of guilt."  
  
"Gross." Joe shoves his face into his pillow again. They stay on the line in silence for a while, and then Joe scrambles up onto his knees. His face feels flushed. "Okay, I gotta go mumble to myself so it sounds like I'm praying."  
  
"That's horrible," Brendon says instinctively. "Why can't you just keep talking on the phone?"  
  
"Too many pauses. It's unrealistic. Anyway, looks like I'm kind of pulling ahead of you in 'Project: Breaking From The Religious Religiony of Religion', you know."  
  
"In that category, maybe," Brendon says vaguely. Joe wonders if he's alluding to the fact that Joe still can't curse naturally. He's not going to  _force_  himself to do it, but with Frank - and sometimes with Brendon - it just pops out of their mouths like they're not even thinking about it.  
  
He hears the light sounds of piano keys in the background and pictures Brendon pressing the middle pedal to mute the strings. Before he can ask what Brendon means, Brendon says, "I guess I'll see you later, then."  
  
"Peace." Joe even throws up a peace sign before he ends the call and tosses his phone to the foot of the bed. Yup, Brendon was definitely acting weird again.  
  
When he pokes his head out of his room, he can hear muffled sounds coming from a TV, which means his parents are still watching the news. Fake prayer is probably unnecessary, then. Joe ambles into Kevin's room instead. He starts walking all weird and making undead noises when Kevin doesn't look up from his computer.  
  
"Kevin," he groans. He hooks his fingers over the sides of his mouth and pulls it open wide. "Keeeeeeviiiiiiiiin."  
  
"Joe," Kevin replies simply.  
  
Joe drops the act. He wipes his hands on his pants. "I have to say, your zen mechanism has gotten a lot stronger," he comments as he flops onto Kevin's bed, lying down with his calves hanging over the side.  
  
"Yeah, thanks for all the forced practice," Kevin says, but he stops typing and turns in his chair to smile at Joe. "What's up."  
  
"Nothing." Joe kicks out blindly and hits Kevin's knee. "I'm bored." He kicks again. Kevin smacks his foot away. "Hey, do you think I could pull off sneaking out of the house?"  
  
"Like, through the front door or what? I think Mom's pretty attuned to that sound now. It's like her bat signal," Kevin replies. All the doors and windows on the first floor are rigged up to their alarm system, and it beeps whenever something's opened.  
  
"No, out my window. Onto the roof," Joe outlines. "Down the gutter. Or maybe down the tree."  
  
"I think you'd fall off the roof and we'd have to drive you to the hospital," Kevin says. "Again."  
  
"I was just trying to get Nick's frisbee," Joe argues.  
  
"That you threw up there in the first place."  
  
"Why are you punishing me for trying to amend my wrongs, Kev?" Joe sits up. "So you don't think I could do it?"  
  
"Anything's possible." Kevin turns back to his computer. Joe cranes his neck and sees that he's writing an e-mail. Probably to what's-her-face. "Just let me know when you're planning on trying, I want to videotape it so I can play it whenever I feel sad."  
  
"Something like that really would capture my essence," Joe agrees.  
  
"Just a three-second clip of you falling off the roof, repeated multiple times in alternating slow and fast-motion. It'd be beautiful," Kevin says distractedly. "Hey, go bug Nick, I gotta write this e-mail."  
  
Joe obediently gets up. "You make it sound all important, but it's really a love letter, isn't it?" he accuses.  
  
"Want me to read it out loud to you?" Kevin offers.  
  
"Ugh." Joe makes a face. "21st century love notes written by you? Ugh."  
  
"'Dear Boo,'" Kevin reads out loud, but he starts cracking up before he can go any further. Joe's already on the floor, gasping for air.  
  
"Dear Boo. Dear  _Boo_. Oh jeez." He makes such a racket that Nick comes in and asks what's going on, and Frankie comes upstairs to poke his head in, and then Mom and Dad tell them to calm down and go to sleep. Summer break is so awesome.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The next morning, Nick is supposed to leave to go to music camp for a couple weeks, so Mom makes this huge breakfast. Joe eats about ninety pancakes and steals Kevin's bacon.  
  
Kevin's bacon. Kevin Bacon. Joe snickers to himself. Frankie looks at him with a huge smile, which Joe returns. "Hey, buddy," he says. "How's it going?"  
  
"You always laugh to yourself," Frankie says. He eats a forkful of eggs.  
  
Nick puts his elbows on the table and leans forward a little. "That's because no one else laughs at his jokes," he says in a faux whisper.  
  
"It's true," Kevin says in the same whisper.  
  
"A ha ha ha haaaaaaa ha ha," Joe says. "Ha. Frankie, if you grow up to be like me, you'll be a lucky, lucky man."  
  
"Finish up, boys," Dad calls from the hallway. "We want to get a move on if you don't want to be late, Nick."  
  
"Yes sir," Nick calls back, already standing up to take his plate over to the sink.  
  
Kevin and Frankie get up as well, and Joe follows after one last bite of eggs. As everyone files outside, Joe walks up behind Nick and wraps his arms over Nick's shoulders. "Don't go, Nick. I can't annoy Kevin on my own anymore, it takes our combined powers now."  
  
He's only half-kidding. Nick just smiles indulgently, which makes Joe hold on even tighter. "Nick. Nick. Nick," Joe chants. He has total middle child syndrome, he can admit it. His parents also secretly think he has some kind of attention deficit disorder, but that's not true. Joe's just less dead inside and more exciting and excitable than other people.  
  
"Joe, you're choking me." Nick half-heartedly tries to peel away Joe's arms from his neck. Nick is twelve years old, going on sixty-five. He'd fit right in with the senior discount crowd at Denny's.  
  
"I'm just choking you for all the times I won't get to do it while you're gone." With one last squeeze, Joe drops his arms to his sides again. "Have fun. Wait till lights out to sneak to the girls' cabins."  
  
Nick rolls his eyes. "Duh, I know that." Then he smiles at Joe. Joe automatically smiles back. It's weird - sometimes Nick seems so young and so old at the same time. Joe's probably just projecting, though.  
  
Dad throws Nick's duffel bag in the trunk, and him, Nick, Mom, and Frankie all pile into the car. Joe throws his arm around Kevin's shoulders and tries to hang on without putting his feet on the ground, like a monkey. Kevin sags to the side with an, "Oof."  
  
"Bye!" Nick yells out the open window. Frankie's waving beside him.  
  
"We'll be back in a couple hours," Mom calls.  
  
"Okay, bye!" Joe yells as Kevin also gasps out a goodbye. "Have fun!" He lifts both feet off the ground again, and both of them tumble onto the grass just as the car is turning the corner.  
  
*  
  
The doorbell rings while Joe's waiting for Mom, Dad, and Frankie to get home. Kevin's sitting outside talking on the phone, so Joe jogs over to the door and opens it.  
  
"Holy wow," he gapes.  
  
"Hey." Frank grins.  
  
"Dude, what'd you do to your  _hair_?" Joe says in awe. He reaches out tentatively, like he's going to pet a rabid koala or something. Frank ducks his head obligingly so that Joe can run his palm over the buzzed, bleached out sides and the longer mohawk-looking thing in the middle. That part's still dark. "It's like a reverse skunk, oh man. Sweet."  
  
"Yup." Frank raises his head again and beams at Joe. "Gotta take advantage of summer break. Gerard helped me do it."  
  
Gerard is Frank's friend from when he went to public school. The two of them still hang out all the time. Joe had tagged along to the Ways' house once, and felt supremely uncomfortable. There were too many figurines and post-taxidermy animals and Mikey Ways judging him with blank eyes. Okay, only one Mikey Way and one small stuffed bird that was actually kind of cute, but still. But Frank had told Joe that Gerard was reluctant to come over to the Jonas' house after his initial visit because the gigantic Jesus portrait freaked him out, so whatever.  
  
Anyway, Frank looks awesome, is the point. Joe is secretly glad his parents aren't home to see it, though; they already think Frank's a 'bad influence' and that he's into 'heavy drugs'. Two-toned hair isn't likely to help them change their minds.  
  
"Are you into heavy drugs?" Joe asks out of nowhere, and then he wants to kick himself.  
  
Frank squints up at him. "Uh. No?" He's really good at fielding Joe's - and Brendon's - random questions, which is cool of him. "I might be into light drugs, though," he adds with a small smirk.  
  
Light drugs weren't heavy drugs. Good enough for Joe. "I was just wondering," Joe says hastily.  
  
"Yeah, whatever. Hey, what are you doing tonight? I rented this really cheesy-looking slasher movie. The cover is like, a room full of blood, and the title is written in darker blood on the bloody walls," Frank explains. "You in? Gerard and Mikey are coming over to my house around 8:00."  
  
Joe toes at the carpet. Watching a movie where people die horrible deaths still isn't that appealing to him, but hanging out with people is. "Um, I can't. It's family game night."  
  
"Oh yeah, I forgot." Frank frowns. It's a pretty nonjudgmental frown, but Joe can't help but think about the fact that Frank's parents are divorced and he's an only child. Joe feels awkward for no reason, since he's pretty sure Frank doesn't give a crap about any of that.  
  
"Yeah, Frankie's finally going to play on his own since Nick isn't here," Joe expounds uselessly.  
  
"Cool." Frank nods.  
  
"You could swing by Brendon's," Joe suggests.  
  
Frank purses his lips, like he's trying not to smile. "I already called him. It's family game night at his place, too."  
  
"Oh." Then, even though he kind of feels like a d-bag doing it, Joe apologizes. "Sorry, man."  
  
"Nothing to be sorry about, asshole," Frank says easily. "See you later, then."  
  
"Bye," Joe says.  
  
He shuts the door, then walks to the family room. "Jesus Christ," he says as he stares at the Jesus picture. He doesn't consider it cursing as long as he's looking at the portrait, because he could just be saying Jesus's name out loud for kicks. Everything's about finding the loophole.  
  
His family should be home soon. He starts setting up the game board.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It takes Joe a week or so to notice that he hasn't seen or talked to Brendon in a really long time. They usually at least text each other every day, or Brendon bombards Joe's away message with .gifs or links or dumb messages like  _my skin feels itchy whyyyyy_. Joe misses the guy, and noticeably so. It surprises him. It's not like his youth group friends, whom he can see on only Sundays and be fine with it.  
  
Joe dials Brendon's number as he's putting on clothes to take Frankie to the library. The outgoing voicemail clicks on after four rings - Brendon uncharacteristically has one of those boring automated ones where he just says his name. As soon as the beep sounds, Joe presses his lips right against the mouthpiece and says in a low voice, "Turns out there is a gaping hole in my heart without you."  
  
That sounds weird and creepy on its own, so Joe settles the phone against his ear again and adds, in his normal voice, "I can't convince anyone else to help me strap a leaf blower to my bike. Call me back, man."  
  
He hangs up and stares at his phone, which is blinking the call time at him. That could well have been the most awkward message he's ever left. And to _Brendon_. Joe dials Frank's number, as if it to make up for his failure.  
  
"Yo," Frank answers.  
  
"Hey," Joe greets haltingly, trying to put on a sweater while holding the phone to his ear. He pulls his arms through the armholes one at a time and asks, "Have you seen Brendon?"  
  
Frank giggles. "Are you a talking milk carton?"  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"You know, with the ads for missing children," Frank explains. "Anyway, no, I have not. He kind of does his own thing, doesn't he?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess," Joe hedges, because it's always seemed like he and Brendon hung out with each other more than they did with Frank. Frank had his old friends, and all. "Hasn't he been sort of off since like, the last week of school? Or was that just me?"  
  
"He was a little quiet," Frank admits. "I don't know, I think he was going through some shit with his family and stuff." Family issues are probably the sole subject that Frank doesn't ask to know more about.  
  
"Who isn't," Joe mutters.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing," Joe fibs. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I don't know. Gerard's picking me up and I think we're going to go see if anyone will buy us beer," Frank says. He sighs. "We'll probably just end up throwing rocks at parking meters, though."  
  
"Oh." Even though it sounds really stiff and snobby, Joe can't help but wish they were doing something wholesome. At the same time, he wishes he could go with them.  
  
"Let's watch a movie next week, though," Frank suggests.  
  
"Yeah, maybe. No, yeah, we'll set something up. See you later."  
  
They hang up. Joe should get going if he doesn't want Frankie to be late for afternoon storytime, but he just sits on the edge of his bed for a while, cradling his phone loosely in his hand. He wonders when he stopped being able to think in absolutes. He wonders when he started being so indecisive and clueless about things. He wonders why sometimes he'll be in one place and wishing he was in another.  
  
He gets up, looks at the full-length mirror hanging on the back of his door, and makes a face at it before trooping to Kevin's room. Kevin's in the middle of putting on a jacket, probably for a date with Danielle.  
  
Joe plays with the doorknob. "Hey, Kev."  
  
"Hey. You guys haven't left yet?" Kevin asks while he studies his reflection and pats his hair down.  
  
"Not yet. Soon." Joe keeps wiggling the doorknob back and forth until Kevin leans against his dresser and gives Joe a pointed look.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it," Joe says. "Do you ever feel like - " He pauses to nibble on his lip.  
  
"Are you going to ask me about some weird bodily function again?" Kevin asks warily.  
  
"No, I'm just trying to think. It's like," Joe waves his hand around, "like, I don't know. Well, okay, ignore the word choice," he starts again, "but - do you ever feel like rebelling? Against Mom and Dad or something?"  
  
Kevin smiles a little, then just looks at Joe with a more thoughtful expression when Joe doesn't say anything. "Joe, I'm leaving for college in three months. Rebelling can wait until then."  
  
"Yup," Joe says vaguely.  
  
It's quiet for a moment, save for the dull  _click-click-click_  of the doorknob. Kevin crosses his arms over his chest and finally says, "Hey. They love us, they want to protect us. Same as most other parents." He pauses. "Am I on the right track?"  
  
"Yeah, keep going."  
  
Kevin continues: "It's like - everyone just goes about showing that in their own specific way, so if we do something that's different, even though it's not necessarily  _bad_ , they freak out. But that's kind of natural, I think, and now we're getting older, there's a whole bunch of - I mean, I just don't want to start this huge crap-storm right before I go away, you know?" He seems to make himself wrap it up. "It's not worth it. I can wait."  
  
"I can't," Joe says before he can stop himself. He stops playing with the doorknob, because his hand has gotten slightly sweaty. He wipes it on his shirt.  
  
Kevin smiles again. "Yeah, well, you're the most impatient one out of all of us, that's why."  
  
Joe wishes he could give advice as good as Kevin, but it's probably a gift that only the oldest child gets, which sucks. He thinks that if Kevin wasn't Kevin, then he would have made a really good grandma, one who bakes cookies and gives her grandkids softly-spoken advice and pats their heads. Joe chuckles to himself at the image of Kevin wearing a bonnet or something. At least he's still got his normal sense of humor.  
  
"I don't even want to know what you're thinking about," Kevin says.  
  
"Yeah, you really don't," Joe agrees.  
  
  
***

 

Brendon usually volunteers at the children's hospital on Sundays after church, playing guitar or piano or accordion or whatever and singing really obnoxiously. The kids love it, though. Sometimes Joe goes with him to shake the tambourine and yell, but not often, since there's usually stuff to help out with at their own church. Brendon used to stop by Joe's house a lot afterward, but not recently.

After getting home from church, Joe doesn't even bother to change before plopping down at his computer and idly checking his e-mail. As he's loosening his tie and staring out the window, he catches sight of Brendon riding his bike up the street. He's not even sitting on the seat, he's just standing on the pedals. He coasts up the driveway and drops his bike onto the lawn, and it takes that long for Joe to realize that he's not hallucinating or anything.

"Hey!" Joe yells, but he hears the doorbell ring a few moments later.

He's contemplating whether or not to get up, but his mom answers the door and there's a muffled conversation before someone starts coming up the stairs. Joe counts every single footstep until Brendon appears in the doorway, wearing his stupid pink hoodie and glasses.

"Twinsies," Brendon announces as soon as he steps into the room and sees that Joe's also wearing thick, black frames. He sits down on the bed and Joe, tugging his tie off and tossing it somewhere into his closet, moves across the room to sit beside him.

"Dude," Joe says. He crooks one leg up onto the bed and looks closer at Brendon. "I haven't seen you in like, years. Also, you look like you went to war."

"Do I?" Brendon asks, nudging his glasses off his nose as he reaches underneath the frames to rub at his eyes. He blinks slowly at Joe, eyelids practically at half-mast and his hair looking all peaky. "Well, life's hard and grueling, etcetera. My soul is in pain. All that stuff."

"What's going on really?" Joe asks after a pause. "Are you avoiding me? Because it seems like you're avoiding me."

"Nothing. And I'm not!" Brendon shrugs.

Joe stares at him.

Brendon looks down and picks at his nails.

Joe stares at him.

Brendon drops his hands into his lap and admits, "Well, I'm in a band now, kind of."

It takes a while for Joe to realizes that his mouth is literally hanging open. "What? Really? With who? With Frank?" That last question sends a sharp line of jealously through his spine. He sits up straighter to try to push it out.

"Nah, not with Frank. With this guy, Brent. He's in my math class. A couple of his friends go to Bishop, and, yeah." Brendon fidgets. "Sorry I haven't been around."

"Oh. Okay." Joe splays his hand over his own knee and studies Brendon's face again. "And your parents don't know," he guesses. He doesn't know why he says it, but he does.

Brendon doesn't look surprised, in any case. "No, they do not," he confirms.

"So you've been sneaking around," Joe guesses again.

"A-yup."

"And that's why you look so beat."

"A-yup." Brendon actually looks kind of proud of himself, and happy despite all the signs of exhaustion.

Joe thinks about it. "Are you guys good?"

"We - yeah. I mean, I think so. Ryan - the guitarist - he's got some lyrics that are really..." Brendon changes tack again. "We've been working on some melodies, and they're coming along. Ryan went on vacation with Spencer - the other guy, the drummer - this week, so." He scratches his cheek and looks at Joe. "It's fun," he says simply. "I think we could be really good."

"That's awesome, dude," Joe says, and he really means it. "Why were you hiding that from me? I love it."

Brendon grins, and it's one of his old grins, wide and unselfconscious. "Yeah? I have the Joe Jonas approval?"

"Double-J approved, all the way." Joe gives him two thumbs up. He's happy for Brendon, he really is, but at the same time he feels kind of like he's getting dragged under again, where everything seems possible but impossible at the same time, and everyone's moving forward while Joe is moving sideways.

They end up just hanging out in his room, watching the teen movie lineup on USA. Through the middle of  _10 Things I Hate About You_ , Joe feels a weight settle on his arm and looks down to see Brendon asleep, his head lolling against Joe's shoulder. Suddenly, Joe is like, crazy aware of their contact - Brendon's head on his shoulder, how their arms are smushed together, how Joe's leg is kind of crooked so that his knee is pushed up against Brendon's. Joe has been in this position with Taylor a million times - okay, maybe more like five, on second thought - but those scenes are murky at best. He can't even remember what they had been doing, just that it had happened. He can remember what it had always led to, though.

Without knowing why, Joe finds himself raising his free arm; he stops when his fingers are inches away from Brendon's face, hovering right where his mouth is. He can feel a small rush of air against his fingers every time Brendon exhales.

Joe draws his fingers into a fist and drops his arm back onto the bed. "What the hell?" he mouths at the ceiling.

 

***

 

That night, Joe wakes up at 4:00am because he dreams about Brendon.

He blinks and hisses, "What the  _hell_?!" at the ceiling.

 

***

 

Nobody has anything to do the next day, so Frank and Brendon bring their yearbooks over to Joe's house. Joe is kind of wary of letting Frank sign his, because right now Frank is sprawled on his stomach in Joe's room, drawing penises in random pages of Brendon's yearbook. Joe shoves his onto the bookshelf and jumps on the bed to look at Frank's with Brendon instead. Better to be safe than sorry - Joe's mom likes to take their yearbooks without warning and show her friends.

"Ha!" Joe slams his hand down onto the yearbook before Brendon can turn the page. "Nerd. Nice smile."

It's the page featuring the jazz ensemble. Brendon is in the front row, with one hand on the keyboard and the other holding up a triangle. It also looks like his foot is toeing a pair of maracas. "It's okay to be jealous of my skills, Jonas," Brendon says soothingly. "Too bad you can't have  _these_." He holds his hands up and crosses them at the wrists as he does spirit fingers.

"Yeah, I'm absolutely heartbroken." Joe rolls his eyes and slaps Brendon's hands away - if 'slaps' means he wraps his hands around Brendon's and slowly guides them away from his face, releasing his grip only after he pushes Brendon's wrists against the mattress and holds them there for a couple seconds.

Joe has been having this silent battle with himself all freaking day. He wants to stay as close to Brendon as possible, to make up excuses to hook his chin over Brendon's shoulder or touch his hip; at the same time, he wants to stay as far away as possible, to kick everyone out and huddle up in his bed so he can freak out in solitude. He feels vaguely crazy.

"Which page is it?" Frank asks distractedly.

"Two-seventy-four," Joe tells him. He flexes his hands into fists, then opens them back up.

"Great, now he's going to draw a dick on my face," Brendon complains.

"Not on your face,  _around_  your face," Frank corrects. "I'll put your head inside the ball on the left. And maybe I should make those maracas into a dildo," he says thoughtfully.

Joe hangs his upper body off the bed. "Take artistic license, Frank," Joe tells him.

"I will, after I take a piss," Frank says. He puts his Sharpie down and crawls out into the hallway.

The blood rush to Joe's head makes his vision all speckly, so he pulls himself back up with a grunt and sees that Brendon has gotten to the faculty section of the yearbook. There are black-and-white shots of the teacher's lounge, a close-up of a table cluttered with empty coffee cups, and some lady facing the chalkboard as she writes an assignment. Joe can't recognize who it is from the back.

"Shit, Ms. Salpeter is pretty hot." Brendon pokes at the picture on the bottom right, lightly outlining the bottom edge with his nail. In it, Ms. Salpeter is bundled up with a coat and scarf, standing outside a concert hall with the sun haloing her hair. "Is it wrong to say that about a teacher?"

"She doesn't count as a  _teacher_  teacher, though. She's just a TA, and choir TAs are always hot," Joe dismisses. He props his chin on his hand and flips the page, where there's a double-page spread of faculty pictures. "Jackpot. Oh, Ms. Palmer's looking real nice here."

"Are we playing that game? I guess we're playing that game," Brendon answers himself. "Okay, Ms. Asher," he offers. "Her legs. Her legs are a representation of everything good in the world."

"Dude, that's another TA!" Joe says. He gives Brendon an exaggeratedly annoyed look - it's classic, seriously - but Brendon isn't even looking up to experience its glory. Instead, he's still concentrating on the yearbook. Joe relaxes his face and tries to guess who Brendon's focusing on.

"Fine. Fine, Mr. Flowers, then," Brendon finally says without looking up. His finger presses against the flat black-and-white pixellated rectangle. Mr. Flowers doesn't have a mustache in the picture, and he's smiling slightly, as if resigned to the fact that his picture is being taken.

Joe looks at Brendon. He watches his Adam's apple bob a little, like he's swallowing hard.

"Yeah, Mr. Flowers," Joe finds himself echoing. He glances down at the picture again, at Mr. Flowers and his little lopsided smile, and feels the urge to sit up straight, just like he had when Brendon had told him about his band.

Brendon closes the yearbook and grins at Joe. It doesn't seem forced at all, even though Joe knows it has to be. It has to be. "Let's go practice backflips in the yard."

"I - okay," Joe says.

They walk out to the yard, and Frank joins them as they drag out the trampoline and start trying to do somersaults. All the falling gets in the way, though. Brendon is laughing and talking loudly and generally being himself, and by the end of the day, Joe can't understand what he'd been so taken back about. Mr. Flowers  _is_  a good looking guy, objectively. Save for the fact that he's old. Joe just doesn't like him because they get on each other's nerves. Big deal.

As always, Frank politely turns down the offer to stay for dinner - maybe the combination of the Jesus portrait and Joe's parents are too much for him, too - but Brendon stays, eating seconds and scooping mashed potatoes off Joe's plate every time Joe isn't looking. When Joe walks him out, it's beginning to get dark. The porch light makes Brendon's face look all glowy and pale, his eyes even darker than usual by contrast.

"Hey," Joe says. He has his hands in his pockets and is watching Brendon pick up his bike from the lawn.

"Yeah?"

"You should come over tomorrow. Bring some records or something," Joe says, and adds, "If you're not busy."

Brendon sets his palms on the handlebars. He nods, then gives Joe a small smile. "Not busy. I'll be over after dinner?"

"Cool." Joe nods back as Brendon swings his leg over the seat and takes off after yelling, "Bye!" over his shoulder.

"Don't get hit by a car," Joe calls after him.

The last thing Joe sees before Brendon disappears into the dark is one pale middle finger extending from Brendon's fist. Joe stands there for a long time, just looking out into the street long after Brendon's gone.

 

***

 

Mom and Dad pick Nick up from camp the next evening. The first thing Joe does when Nick gets home is hug him so hard his feet leave the floor. He smells like sunscreen and dirty socks and cornbread. That last one is probably because of the camp dinner. Joe keeps hugging him, then dumps him on the couch, duffel bag and all.

Nick looks a little dazed. "Hi, I missed you, too."

"Yeah, yeah, I missed you, you little jerk." Joe sits on Nick's legs and Nick giggles hoarsely, trying to nudge him off. They tussle a bit, and then Joe realizes that Dad is still in the room. Joe gives him a sheepish grin, expecting to get scolded for calling Nick names, but Dad smiles at him instead.

"What?" Joe asks.

"It's just good to see my kids getting along, is all," Dad says. He hangs his keys on the wall and goes into the kitchen.

"He's being really corny today," Nick whispers.

There's that happily depressed feeling again. Joe becomes re-aware of his surroundings when he feels Nick's bony little knees jab up against his butt. "Ow, your stick legs are all stabby," Joe complains. He rolls off the couch and lies on the carpet. "So tell me about camp," he says to Nick.

Nick sits up. He rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, it was cool. We split up into groups and performed our own songs plus a cover at the end. And I learned how to do pinch harmonics. It's totally metal."

"Awesome. What about the gals, huh, Nick?" Joe prods. Rubbing the back of his neck is Nick's tell. Poor kid doesn't even know it.

"What about them?" Nick is practically rubbing off a layer of skin from his neck at this point.

"Yeah, sure. You look like Kevin after a superbad sunburn, you know," Joe teases. He sits up and punches Nick's shin, just because, and the doorbell rings almost at the same time his fist makes contact with Nick's leg. While Joe is momentarily distracted with difficult things such as getting to his feet, Nick swings himself off the couch and runs up the stairs, all lanky limbs and flailing movements.

Joe's still smiling when he opens the front door. It only gets wider when he sees Brendon standing on the front stoop with his backpack on. "Yo," he says.

"Hey," Brendon greets. "So, I brought a bunch of stuff. There's a party in my bag."

"Sweet." Joe pumps his fist. "Let's set up the record player."

The record player underneath Joe's bed is covered in a thin film of dust. It's also lopsided and the needle probably scratches every record to death, but the small little light works and the turntable spins, so Brendon slips a record on. It spins in a shaky circle, spitting crackly static through the internal speaker. Joe shuts the door to his room and is about to flick on the ceiling lamp, but he nixes that idea. He lifts the blinds and opens the windows instead, letting in a slow, warm breeze and the buttery glow of the streetlights.

"Is this mood lighting, Jonas?" Brendon asks in a Barry White-ish voice.

"Only the best for you, man," Joe answers. He sways over to the record player again. Brendon is sitting up against the side of the bed; Joe lies down beside him and sticks his feet in his lap. "Play it."

Brendon leans forward and gently drops the needle down onto the record. A horn section playing a minor interval exhales through the speakers before a man begins singing over the music, a calm, lilting melody that makes Joe want to lie still and listen forever. It's a long song, with a lot of improv sections and solos. He keeps his hands folded over his chest, breathing quietly as his room gets darker and darker until the only thing he can see is the tiny turntable light illuminating the grooves on the record. Brendon taps his fingers on Joe's bare ankle. Joe feels warm and content.

There's a pause, and then the song switches up into one with a faster beat and a crazy bassline. It's disorienting for a moment; Joe feels like he's waking up out of a dream or something.

"Hey, listen to this solo coming up." Brendon pokes his index finger in the air to keep the beat, and then gives an exaggerated nod as a saxophone solo kicks in. "Ridiculous. So ridiculous."

"That's really good," Joe agrees. There's a constant wave of notes coming from the speakers, moving around in pitch until Joe's head is filled with sound and he's moving his feet in time with the music, digging into Brendon's legs with his ankles. "How do you even play saxophone anyway? Can I just blow into it or what?"

"No, you have to purse your lips, like this." Brendon makes this weird kind of fish face, like he's some lady trying to avoid getting lipstick on her teeth.

"Like this?" Joe tries to make a similar face, but Brendon breaks into this really big grin and laughs at him.

"You suck. Here, sit up." Brendon motions impatiently.

Joe splays his hands on the floor and crab-walks them along until he's sitting upright, with his feet still in Brendon's lap. "Wait," he says, squirming around until he's sitting cross-legged like Brendon, and at an angle that leaves one of Brendon's knees tucked neatly into the 'V' made by Joe's shins.

Brendon starts again: "Okay, it's more like," and instead of finishing his sentence, he reaches over and tries to mold Joe's mouth into some weirdo shape with his fingers. Joe keeps his face slack, but it only feels like Brendon's giving him duck lips, or making him looking like that cat lady with all the plastic surgery.

"This isn't working," Joe says almost unintelligibly, talking around Brendon's fingers. This is probably what collagen injections in his lips would be like. "You're totally making this up, aren't you?"

Brendon laughs. Joe does too, huffing out pockets of air. For some reason, he reaches up and wraps his hands around Brendon's wrists. The music is still playing the same fast beat, but it seems to fade into the background, like he's listening to a neighbor's party. Joe's head feels foggy again.

He doesn't exactly know how they end up with their mouths pressed together, but that's what happens. In contrast to the music, everything seems to be moving in slow motion, like time is suddenly viscous. He can still feel the pressure of Brendon's fingers on his mouth; the sensation is fading away with each second, but Brendon's lips are still on his own, and they're  _kissing_. Joe's heart is beating so fast that he kind of feels like he's going to puke. 

He angles his chin down to break the kiss; they end up with their foreheads pressed together, and god. God. Joe has no idea about anything anymore.

"Are your eyes still closed," Brendon breathes.

"Yes," Joe murmurs. The tips of their noses touch once, and again. "Are yours?"

Brendon hums an affirmative. He sighs shakily.

Joe keeps his eyes shut tight. He opens his mouth to say something else, but ends up leaning forward again instead.

 

***

 

Joe spends the next couple days wandering around in this weird haze. He does a lot of things; he hangs out with Jordan and Zac from church, helps his dad write the sermon for the coming Sunday, goes shoe shopping with Nick, watches a bunch of movies with him and Kevin, and the three of them go to an amusement park, too. Joe's pretty sure he's not supposed to be thinking about Brendon while looking at a pair of Nikes or when he's strapped to a roller coaster car going 60 mph, though.

Nick trudges downstairs, where Joe is lying listlessly on the couch and channel-surfing. "Is Brendon coming over?" Nick asks. "I want someone to play guitar with."

Brendon, with his skinny back and long eyelashes and his mouth on Joe's. That had happened. That was  _real_.

"No," Joe answers absently.

Nick grumbles something, then walks back upstairs. Joe gets up and walks to the family room. He looks at the Jesus portrait.

"Holy shit," he whispers to it. He's pretty dang sure that Jesus's shit was holy, so it still doesn't count as cursing.

 

***

 

"Movie at the downtown theater at 3:00. You better show up or I'll beat your ass in front of your mom. 'kay, bye."

The voicemail from Frank cuts off. Joe presses '7' to delete it, along with the three others that Frank had left. It's not that Joe doesn't want to see a movie, it's that it's the end of the week and he still hasn't seen Brendon since That Night.

Everything had ended kind of suddenly. One minute Brendon was on top of Joe, kissing him hesitantly in the dark, and the next minute Nick was knocking on the door, asking what they were listening to. Both of them had then motored into a flurry of movement, with Brendon rolling off of Joe and contorting his arm to unplug the record player, and Joe pulling down his shirt from where it'd been rucked up almost all the way to his armpit and scrambling over to turn on the lights.

"John Coltrane!" Joe had announced loudly as soon as he opened the door to a slightly bewildered-looking Nick.

Yeah, it hadn't been that great an ending.

After putting on a sweater, taking it off, and repeating the process about five times, Joe finally decides not to pussy out. He takes the bus downtown and walks the rest of the way to the theater, where he can spot Frank by his crazy hair, standing in front of the outdoor box-office.

"Hey," Joe calls, jogging over.

Frank turns around. "God, finally. I thought you were becoming a hermit or something. Why didn't you answer your phone?"

Joe shrugs and tries not to look around. Maybe Brendon hadn't shown up. He doesn't know whether to feel glad about that or not. Before he can think about it, he hears a skateboard coming up behind him and Brendon skids into his field of vision.

"Hey," Brendon greets, grabbing Frank's shoulders as a stopping mechanism.

"Hey," Joe says. They don't look at each other at first, but in the middle of trying not to meet Brendon's eyes, Joe accidentally does exactly that. Brendon makes a brief face; Joe scratches his nose and makes one back. He wants to say something, but he should know by now that following through with his impulses isn't that great of an idea. Like,  _hey, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to kiss and run on me, you asshole_  probably wouldn't be that great.

"Hi," Brendon says again.

"Hi," Joe repeats. He can't help it.

"What the hell is going on?" says Frank.

"Nothing," Brendon answers. "What time does the movie start?"

"Not for ten more minutes. I got your tickets, pay me back later."

"Or your Mafia grandpa's gonna put us six feet under?" Joe asks as Frank hands out tickets to them. Brendon skates off and Joe runs after him to dodge the punch that Frank is aiming at his arm.

The street is sloped slightly downhill. Brendon starts running his skateboard up to the top of the block and trying to make it all the way down without stopping, weaving in between people, parking meters, and newspaper vendors. Joe's just standing in the line of Brendon's path and trying to dive out of the way with as little time to spare before they collide. Things are - things are still all fucked up and in the air, but right now he's kind of having the time of his life.

"Jesus, you guys are such spazzes." Frank shakes his head. He's in no place to judge though, since he's a spaz too. Frank's more of a hardcore spaz. It's like his mission in life to get punched in the face a lot or something. On the other hand, Brendon and Joe just like jumping off stuff, or rolling around on anything that can bounce or has wheels.

Brendon skids to a stop at the end of his last run, picking up his board and running off the rest of the momentum. They're about to head into the theater when someone says, "Hey, losers," and Brendon turns around almost on instinct. Some big dudes round the corner of the theater and Joe vaguely recognizes them as kids he's seen around town, but he doesn't know their names and doubts that they even know who he is, either.

They seem to be well-acquainted with Frank, though. Some of them jeer at him, and one even reaches out to push at his shoulder.

Frank openly rolls his eyes. "Seriously? I don't even go to your school anymore. Go watch your fucking movie and leave us alone. This is dumb."

"What's dumb is you opening your mouth," the biggest guy threatens.

Brendon makes this noise, which Joe recognizes afterward as a snort. Everyone looks at him. "Uh," Brendon says. "What? I'm just amazed that people actually say stuff like that." When he sees the looks that the guys are giving him, he leans his skateboard against his knee and holds his hands up. "Okay, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean that. How about we just go our separate ways now, okay? Right, Frank?"

Frank spits on the ground response.

"Ugh. Frank, come on, this isn't  _The Outsiders_  or whatever." Brendon picks his board up with one hand and takes Frank's elbow with the other. "Come on," he repeats, trying to turn Frank around.

"Yeah, how about you guys go your separate ways," the first guy mocks.

"Fuck you, fuck off," Frank snaps.

The guys laugh. Brendon's expression tightens. He's still holding on to Frank's arm and Joe watches as he studies each and every one of the guy's faces. Joe has been standing around awkwardly this entire time, feeling like he's been misplaced into a movie scene, but that look on Brendon's face triggers a familiar itching in Joe's throat. It's usually a signal that he's going to say something stupid.

He steps forward. "Hoooooow's about, you go choke on a dick," he suggests with overly round vowels. It's something he's heard Frank say a lot.

"Oh my god," he hears Brendon groan, and then just like that, his face explodes. He's vaguely aware of the ground hitting his knees, or maybe it's the other way around, he doesn't know. His heart seems to be beating in his brain now, with every pump of blood vessels visible in red static. Turns out that getting punched in the face hurts a  _lot_.

"Oh my god, my face exploded," Joe yells, his voice muffled by the fact that his hands are clapped over his face. "Oh god oh god, face explosion!"

He keeps going in the same vein until he pauses to take a breath and realizes that the atmosphere around him is now peacefully quiet, save for the occasional patter of footsteps and the robotic voice of the box-office worker through the mic.

"Joe," says Frank's voice. A hand settles on his shoulder. "Joe, it's over. They're gone. You okay?"

"Can you walk?" asks Brendon. He sounds really close.

Actually, Joe would rather lie here for the rest of his life, so he doesn't answer anyone. Someone tries to pry his hands away from his face. He's pretty sure it's Brendon but he doesn't know why. When a different pair of hands shoves up underneath Joe's armpits in an attempt to get him to stand, he stubbornly remains as dead weight until they give up.

"Goddammit. Okay, here, let's lay him on the skateboard. We can roll him to my house," Frank says.

Joe twitches. "I can walk," he says. It takes him a few moments and he leaves a bloody handprint on the asphalt, but he manages to get to his feet with the help of Brendon and Frank holding him up. "I can walk," Joe repeats.

They walk.

*

"I can't believe you got punched in the face and I didn't," Frank complains. He closes the freezer door and presses an icepack to Joe's mouth, ignoring Joe's hisses. "Hold it," Frank orders.

Joe is about to obey, but Brendon gets there first, since Joe's reflexes are kind of slow going. Brendon shifts the icepack in his grip and holds it more gently against Joe's face. "He got punched twice," Brendon corrects.

"Yeah, ith juth thomethig I'b tho  _pwowed_  ub," Joe says, putting his hand flat over his heart.

"It's just something he's so  _proud_  of," Brendon translates. He rests his forearm over his knees and slumps down a little, but keeps his eyes on Joe. Joe blinks back with his good eye. "God, you're really stupid," Brendon tells him.

Joe finds that words come out a little clearer if he tries to not move his lips. "I was just standing up for my friends."

"You sound like an after-school special. Chivalry is dead, stupid," Frank says. He's been periodically pressing a hand-towel to Joe's lip, and now he tosses it into the sink without second thought to covering a nice hand-towel with blood. 

"I stood up for you with my face. My  _face_." Joe points at his face with emphasis. "You're  _welcome_."

"Shut up," Frank tells him, but he sticks his hand in Joe's hair and musses it up.

Brendon licks his lips. "You could have," he starts, but seems to think better of it.

They move to sit on the couch after granting Joe permission to hold his own damn icepack. Joe lays his head on the back cushions and drapes the pack over his cheek. It's strange to be getting an adrenaline rush now, like two hours after the explosion of his face, but Joe feels twitchy and restless.  _MXC_  is on TV, and they watch in silence until someone honks from the driveway. 

Brendon stands up and brushes off his pants. "That's my parents. I gotta go," he says unnecessarily.

"Okay," Joe says.

"Joe," Brendon says.

"Yeah?"

Brendon brushes off his pants again. "Nothing. Feel better."

"Okay," Joe says again, slightly stung even though he doesn't really have a reason to be.

"I'll see you guys later," Brendon says.

"Eventful day, huh?" Frank remarks.

Brendon breathes out a smile. "Yeah."

After the front door closes and the sound of the car engine fades into the distance, Joe pulls the icepack away from his face. "I should get going, too."

Frank stands up as well. "I'll walk you home."

"Nah, it's okay."

"Shut up," Frank tells him.

Joe doesn't protest twice. But again, even though he still feels like a d-bag doing it, he apologizes. "Sorry, man."

"Are you kidding me? Jesus, what is with you guys and apologizing?" Frank replies. After a beat, he adds, "Nothing to be sorry about, asshole."

*

Joe walks into Kevin's room doing the whole zombie routine again, except he doesn't have to pull at his face to make it all uneven and gross. His cheekbone is swelled pretty good, and he has a fat lip.

"Keviiiiiiiiin," he groans.

Kevin glances at him before whirling around and gaping at him openly. "Holy crap, Joe, what happened? Are you okay?"

"My face got in the way of some dude's fist." Joe gingerly touches his cheek. It's tender and the pain is more sharp that he expected. He touches it again.

"You got into a  _fight_?  _Je_ sus. What the hell, Joe?" Kevin asks. He sounds more confused than anything. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

Joe sits down on Kevin's bed. It hurts to smile, but he can't help it. "I know. It was stupid and I'll probably never do it again, but Kev, I feel pretty great right now."

"That's probably the endorphins," Kevin tells him. "Dude, you got punched in the face. Do Mom and Dad know? Did Nick and Frankie see you?"

"Not yet. I snuck past them and yelled something about going to bed early."

"So you're just putting off the inevitable until tomorrow morning," Kevin states. Joe nods in response. "You're not in trouble or anything, are you? Like, I don't have to worry about your name being on any hitlists in the tri-state area?"

"Nah," Joe dismisses.

"Joe?" Kevin presses. The guy's made of questions. He's starting to sound a little squealy.

"I swear!" Joe insists. "It was stupid, just these dudes I don't even know. They were giving Brendon and Frank a hard time. Please don't lecture me, you know I'm gonna get it from Mom and Dad tomorrow."

Kevin doesn't reply. Instead, he gets up and examines Joe super up-close, like he's a doctor or something, carefully prodding Joe's chin until he turns his head a bit. "It's just the cut on my lip and a bruise on my cheek," Joe points out helpfully. "I cleaned out the cut and stuff."

"Well, good," Kevin says. He steps back a little, as if to take in the whole picture. Finally, he says, "Couldn't wait, could you?"

Joe grins. "Nah."

 

***

 

It takes about twenty minutes of convincing to make Kevin finally leave Joe's room with the icepack. Since then, Joe's been lying in the dark, staring at his window listlessly. Finally, he thinks,  _Eff this_ , and gets out of bed.

Once he opens the window as high as it'll go, he manages to get his shoulders and upper body through okay, but then his hip bangs against one side of the window frame and he almost loses his balance and goes rolling off the roof. It takes some struggling and desperate movements to save himself, hands scrabbling against the shingles like he's doing a wheelbarrow race or something, but he gets steady again.

"Hababababa hoo hoo." Joe says some nonsense out loud to shake off the cold sweat. He wouldn't've done it if he expected to hear a, "Uh," in reply. He glances around wildly and almost loses his balance again.

"Straight ahead," the voice says.

Joe looks up and at the maple tree, where Brendon is perched up in the branches. They stare at each other.

"Hey Tarzan. What are you doing?" Joe finally asks.

"What are  _you_  doing? You look like Quasimoto sneaking out of the bell tower," Brendon says. 

"Well, I am sneaking out," Joe admits.

Brendon shifts a little, causing the braches to shake and rattle. "Yeah, me too. You know we're totally gonna get killed tomorrow morning, right?"

Joe grins. He inches out onto the roof until he's in crouch position, then holds out his hands for Brendon to take.


End file.
